Who could imagine a media congolmerate that, like the one closer to home, all but trounced its own union would transform itself into a practitioner of random kindness and senseless beauty? For it was the mighty Globe that brought tears to the eyes with its puff piece “Radio host travels down memory lane in Mini,” by a freelance scribe whose contract is surely unfavourable, Petrina Gentile.
This glittery jewel hid, as if in a stocking hung by the tree, for over three months until a commenter under the ancien régime pointed it out.
There are those moments when one need not believe in the Abrahamic God to hear His angels sing. So very many of the revelations in this wee marvel, so many of its Ghomeshian aperçus, brought dazed smiles to one’s face. With fingers intertwined and hands pressed firmly against chin like a Polish teenager at a mid-’70s Abba concert, it is all one can do to stave off tears of joy.
The man who admitted to the Toronto Star, near Pride Day of 2006, of an obsession with Swedish fashion designer J. Lindeberg (the Mats to Jian’s Tyler), the man who, holding Govani’s metaphorical cocktail glass in August of ’07, avowed a “ridiculous crush” on the “beauty” of actor Gael García Bernal “before I interviewed him and realized he was the size of a footstool,” now fully reveals, once and for all, under the knowing eyes of his Maker and the Makers of Tea, his betrothed.
It is a Mini.
As I read this admission of allegiance to the most metrosexualist of motorcars, I knew a kind of peace and rightness I had not experienced since being dragged to Lent services in New Brunswick by that horrid old shrew when I would rather have attended an Abba concert. Just as all one needs to know about Jesus is that He died for our sins, all one needs to know about Jian Ghomeshi is contained in this brief celebrity profile.
As a kid in the ’70s growing up in England, I remember those little Minis. I always had an affinity for them. In fact, I had a little toy Mini, a play car you push with your hand.
I’ve always had this natural predilection for the Mini. I always thought it was cute [and] compact and represented a part of my own history as well as being this iconic little car that’s associated with the U.K....
It’s very much a sports car. It handles really well. I’m a very aggressive driver so having a car that can handle the way I drive is important to me and gratifying....
I really like having the top down and driving around with my flowing locks high in the air batting around in somebody’s face behind me.
Did not Jesus also have flowing locks?
In a chronicle of Rapture foretold, the Persian prince (Toronto Star: “Rick Mercer says ‘He has the eyes of an Arabian princess’ ”) presages a Petty contretemps with a visiting musician. “There’s a phenomenal Harman/Kardon stereo with a number of speakers and an iPod dock.... I was just listening to ‘Don’t do me like that. Don’t do me like that’.... Running around listening to Tom Petty — there’s the dream.”
Arguably a man of his stature (though the Star noted his feet – of clay? – were but size 10½) should squire himself about town in something manlier. Perhaps his former Mustang or Jeep? He will have none of it:
There are so many things in my life that could be ‘chick.’ I’ve been a Volkswagen guy for the last few years. And some people consider Volkswagen a chick car.... Ascribing gender identities to cars is funny. I absolutely don’t think a convertible Mini has to be a chick car, but if it is, so be it.
Unity with his soulmate, with his “Little Whitey,” forced Ghomeshi to traverse his own deeply personal lake of fire. “When I decided I wanted a Mini, I had decided on a red convertible with a black top. I put the poor Mini dealership through quite a rigamarole to get me this red Mini,” he admitted with likely understatement.
“I go into the dealership to pick it up and there’s this little unique car sitting next to the red one. It’s a cream-coloured Mini Cooper S convertible with black stripes.” His conclusion on seeing this model rebelled again against gender stereotypes: “I thought ‘That’s my guy.’ ”
Like the Holy Ghost, Lindeberg is never far away. (After all, “I was made to wear J. Lindeberg suits,” he told an homosexualist fortnightly.) “[T]he interior of the car is very much the way I dress. I dress a lot in black. If I ever wear any jewelry — any rings or belt buckles — they’re silver.” (His own private crucifixen, “chunky” belt buckles are important Ghomeshian symbols.) “Friends of mine who see the interior of this car say, ‘Oh, that’s Jian.’ ”
Yet this lamb of God (also of Donlon) is not above temptation. The newspaper profile reveals the Persian prince flirts not with Mexican actors but with apostasy. What if, creeping downstairs early some Christmas morn, he should find in his own stocking God’s gift from the motherland – not hummus but the keys to “an old MG or an old Jaguar”? Could he renounce his betrothed? “What can I say? I’m a British-born boy — that’s what happens.”